


White Lightning

by faintyoungsun (sadlygrove)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Drinking, M/M, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/faintyoungsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if it’s just the moonshine or if Castiel has dipped into his other supply, the stuff that got him chased out of Chicago, got him hiding in a piss-poor town in the Appalachian mountains where you can’t spit without hitting an actual literal jar of spit. But at least the cops don’t ask any questions; half of them are on the take and the other half will be soon if the Winchesters have any say about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a tumblr prompt that was only half followed: http://radioactivemongoose.tumblr.com/post/32694818502/prohibition-au-the-family-business-is-selling
> 
> Partially inspired by Lawless.

Dean inhales deep, holds the mountain air in his lungs, then lets it go in one long, hot puff. They’ve hit the sharpest part of the Appalachians just at the right time when the snow storm surges up to the peaks and pauses like it’s thinking better of it, wondering if maybe it shouldn’t dump a foot on the little towns and stills that puff gray smoke into the sky. It’s like an invisible wall, clouds just hovering, waiting, giving you a head start—Sammy would know why, something about atmospheric pressures and the wind and shit—just enough of a head start to reach home as the first fat flakes tumble down.

“Storm’s comin’.”

“No shit.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

In the backseat John lets out a snore, turning under his coat, head cushioned by a leather bag filled with crisp green bills that smell like heaven.

Dean presses the pedal down just that much harder, watching the storm in his mirrors. “Think we’ll make it?”

“Always do.”

“Amen.” Dean takes a swig from the jar he keeps twixt his knees, the liquid enough to strip paint off their car let alone the skin from his throat. “Too bad we can’t just hit Charleston and drop off Dick’s share, get it all done with in one go.”

“Maybe if someone didn’t drink half of our stash, that’d be possible.” Sam glances back towards their father, not without a modicum of distaste, Dean thinks. Sam sighs. “We’ve got time, Dean. The college doesn’t need full payment right away, don’t worry about it. I can get by.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean takes another sip of white lightning, relishing the burn. “I’d feel better if we just got it all done in one go.”

“I can’t believe you’re even drinking that stuff,” Sam says, clumsily changing the topic and wrinkling his nose. “It smells worse than the last batch.”

“Flame turned blue—means it’s safe to drink, Sammy.”

“That can’t even be right.”

“Driver picks his drink, shotgun shuts his piehole.”

“Yeah, yeah—just don’t run us off the road.”

And admittedly, by the time they pull into the Roadhouse, Dean’s swerving a little, the car’s thin tires rickety with use as they pull in, snow dusting the ground. 

(Dean’ll use his share of the money to modify a car once Sammy’s gone, and God he doesn’t want to think about that, so he sketches engine designs while he guards the still, makes up a stock car for him and Pops to run moonshine, maybe a car to escape someday. Someday, but not soon.)

The Roadhouse is a soft glow in the night, beckoning, an Dean sighs in relief as he kills the engine. They’re safe for another night.

“Pops—hey, wake up—”

“Just leave him, Dean.” Sam slams his door shut, not once looking back. “Let him sleep it off.”

For what it’s worth, Dean gives John’s shoulder one more shake, then gives up when all it does is elicit a snore. “Fine, be that way,” Dean mutters, taking off his own coat to throw over his father’s legs.

“Dean! Don’t forget the bag!”

“Christ, Sammy; let the old man have a pillow for shit’s sake!”

Sam frowns, but doesn’t push the issue, holding open the door for his brother to follow.

The Roadhouse is warm and welcome, golden like apple cider and it does Dean twice as good. Ellen takes Sam’s jacket, Jo chides Dean for his lack of one, and Ruby’s already on Sam’s arm, asking about the latest delivery with too much interest in illicit activities for any girl of nineteen. Sam stammers, downplays how much trouble they ran into and all of the smooth talking he did to get them out of it and damn if he isn’t going to be the best lawyer in West Virginia, and thank God because Dean doesn’t know when his luck’s going to run out, when he’s going to have to cut and run—

“My friend; you have returned.”

“Cas!” Dean’s face splits into a grin, and he can’t really feel it—can’t really feel his teeth either, come to think of it—and he thinks maybe he tries to saunter to the corner table, but it likely doesn’t work because Castiel’s eyes laugh at him but that’s okay. “Of course I have; Chuck here still owes me fifty dollars,” Dean says, slapping the aforementioned on the back.

“I’ll have it next week, Dean, I swear—”

“If you give me your seat, I’ll knock it down to forty,” Dean says, face still stupid because oh hey it’s Cas.

In Dean’s peripheral, Chuck seems to think about it. “Thirty.”

“Forty, and I won’t tell Becky you’re here drinking when you should probably be up for work at the mine in three hours.”

“Ugh, okay, fine.” With a whimper reminiscent of a whipped dog, Chuck downs the last of his liquor and retreats.

“That vas so kind of you.”

“I’mma nice person, what can I say, Cas?” Dean plops down in the chair, shoves it as close to the table as it can get, the wood biting into his chest. “You need a drink?”

“Have one, thank you.” He tips the mason jar, half full, with the hand that isn’t cradling his stubbled chin. “And thanks go to you, I suppose. It is a vonderful batch.”

“Yeah, well.” No blushing, damn it, none of that. “Do what I can.”

“Vould you like to help me feenish it?”

Dean swallows thick at that accent, that little slip, and looks into deep blue eyes, all glassy. He wonders if it’s just the moonshine or if Castiel has dipped into his other supply, the stuff that got him chased out of Chicago, got him hiding in a piss-poor town in the Appalachian mountains where you can’t spit without hitting an actual literal jar of spit but at least the cops don’t ask any questions because half of them are on the take and the other half will be soon if the Winchesters have any say about it and that’s because of the family business, not because Dean has someone else he wants to protect—

“Yeah.” Dean exhales. “I’ll help.”

Castiel merely hums, takes another deep gulp from the jar as his shirt sleeve falls to reveal the red rosary. Dean eyes the beads, accepts the offered drink and sucks down his share. He licks the fire from his lips, wondering if Castiel was feeling nostalgic for home or reliving old memories of the men who kicked his family—his people—out and if tonight will be the night that Dean finally grows enough balls to ask where home even is.

It sure as hell ain’t here, and that hurts in its own way.

They pass the jar back and forth in easy silence, taking smaller, politer sips as the crowd thins out. Dean distantly hears Ellen dragging John inside the Roadhouse by his collar and Ruby’s wicked laugh. 

Castiel smirks, lifting his eyebrows and the final drops in the jar. “Last seep, my friend.” 

“‘S all yours,” Dean says, not out of kindness but so he can watch the bob of that throat.

Castiel’s smirk turns into a rare smile, and Dean stares as he tips his head back. Dean thinks of the short walk through the woods to the shack and the still and how warm it’ll be next to the fires and tries to remember if he left the blankets there from last week. 

The jar slams down to the table and Castiel stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finds his balance.

“You vill come?”

Dean tries not to fall out of his chair at that. “Yeah. Yeah—let’s go.”

They brave the snow, clumsy with laughter and white lightning, not caring about tomorrow, only the mountains and the peace they create in the absolute stillness of an Appalachian night.


End file.
